Everything I Left Unsaid(66)

“I know about the accident. The fire. I went to the library and looked you up.”

“It’s not about the fire.” He lifted his hand to the back of his neck like he was rubbing sore muscles there. And I got the sense that he was lying. “The fire is nothing. There are a lot of things I haven’t told you. Things you’d just be better off not knowing.”

“Well, Jesus Christ, Dylan,” I yelled. “Let’s start with something! Let’s start with you telling me one true thing.”

He looked down at his hands, shadows playing over his beautiful body. “You are…beautiful. You look exactly like I thought you would.”

I gasped, the words so unexpected they slid right through my ribs. Right into the meat and blood and bone of me.

“I never imagined you,” I said.

“Probably smart,” he laughed.

“You just…were you. Just Dylan.” Just everything.

He lifted his head, watching me, and I stood there with nothing. In the face of all that he had, the slimness of my existence, its utter weightlessness, was shocking. But I was out to even the scales. Just a little. Just enough that I could look at myself in the mirror tomorrow. Just enough so I’d know that I’d fought for something. My own worth in this game we’d played. I wasn’t a pawn. I was a person.

“And I’m pretty much done with other people telling me what’s best. So, either stand up, or I’m leaving.”

“Layla—”

I turned for the door.

“There are bears out there!”

“I’m not scared of bears,” I snapped over my shoulder, stepping into the living room. Maybe I’d find some shoes in the closet. If I could find the closet.

“Stop,” he yelled from the garage. “Stop, girl. You’re gonna…fine. Fine, Layla! Come back.”

I stepped back into the garage, the door closed tight behind me, my arms over my chest. My feet were so cold they were numb at this point.

Slowly, he stood up from the shadows. He sort of unfurled from the chair. He wasn’t tall. But he was big. He wore a plain white tee shirt over wide shoulders and a big chest that tapered down to a lean waist. His faded blue jeans were low on his hips, held up by a thick leather belt.

I sucked in a breath, light-headed. His head was still in the shadows and he reached over across the bench, his biceps a beautiful gilded curve, and then he tilted the lamp up so it hit his face.

And he turned, facing me full-on.

The scars were pink and shiny up the side of his neck to his ear. The scar tissue spread across the left side of his face like kudzu, touching the corner of his mouth.

But the rest of his face was the same as those pictures in the articles. Striking. Masculine. Those lips…oh God, those lips. The shiny taut edge only made them more compelling. More beautiful.

“Happy?” he said, tilting his head so I could see the extent of the scars. He was uncomfortable, standing there like that in the light. On display.

“No,” I whispered. “I’m not happy.”

I’d thought, somehow, that it would be so much worse. Because the news coverage just stopped. Because he was shrouded in mystery.

But they were just scars. I’m sorry, I wanted to say. I’m sorry for the pain you must have felt. And the fear you must have lived through. I’m sorry that happened to you. But those scars did nothing to change my feelings for him—conflicted as they were.

“Is that why you stopped talking to me?”

He shook his head, the shadows shifting over his face.

“You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?” I asked, knowing the answer before he said a word.

I’d told him things I’d never told anyone before. Things I hadn’t even conceptualized. But he’d shared nothing of himself, because that made sense. I was the one who’d reached for more. Who’d felt so alone that he’d seemed like a friend.

I had no reason to feel betrayed, but I did.

I looked down at my hands, the calluses on the tips of my fingers. Part of my thumbnail was turning black. I’d smashed it the other day trying to get the damn engine on the mower to work. But this…this thing/not-thing between us. It hurt worse.

“Is Ben okay?” I whispered. “Will you at least tell me that much?”

“Probably; he usually is.”

“Who is Max?”

“A dangerous guy. A…very dangerous guy.”

“You know a lot of dangerous guys.”

Something hard slipped over his face. Something…scary. And I stiffened. An old instinct braced me.

“You should go back to your room, Layla,” he said, sitting back down on the stool, rolling belly up to the bench. I was being dismissed and frankly, he was probably right. But I was pretty done with being bossed tonight.

“I’m not going to do that, Dylan. You don’t have to tell me anything about yourself, but I deserve to know what is happening at the trailer park.” My home.

He spun back out and his eyes, full of hot knowledge, touched me. My shoulders, my stomach. My bruised knees. My breasts.

For a second I thought he was trying to scare me away. With sex. Like he was threatening me. If I stayed, he’d what? Fuck the hell out of me?

Stupid man.

That was not going to scare me away.